hauled occasionally.
No, Edward isn’t Telling All. His report of the phone calls may be legit, but Cone would bet the family farm that those calls are making Edward sweat for a more significant reason than fear of shocking dear old dad.
It’s a creamy night, pillow soft, with a clear sky and a teasing breeze. Stars are beginning to pop out, and a waning moon is still strong enough to silver the city. Cone hates to go up to the loft, but figures he’ll eat, feed the cat, and later do a little more pub crawling if the mood is on him.
His phone is ringing when he enters, and he kicks Cleo out of the way to get to it.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Hello, asshole,” Samantha Whatley says. “I figured I better call you early before you started pub crawling.”
“Nah,” he says. “Farthest from my thoughts. How are you?”
“Eating up a storm. Mom is stuffing me. I’ve gained three pounds so far, all in the wrong places. How are things at the office?”
“Okay.”
“Hiram giving you any problems?”
“Not me. I’m keeping out of his way.”
“I spoke to him this afternoon. He says you’re working on some Chinese thing.”
“Yeah, I’m up to my tail in chop suey.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Not very,” Cone says.
“Jesus, you’re a chatty sonofabitch,” Sam says. “Cutting down on your smoking?”
“Trying to,” he says, fumbling the pack out of his jacket pocket and shaking a cigarette free.
“And how’s that miserable cat?”
“Hungry. When are you coming back?”
“A week from tomorrow. But I’ll be in late. See you on Saturday?”
“Sure,” he says, “sounds good.”
“Take care,” she says lightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “You, too.”
“That was Sam,” he tells Cleo after he hangs up. “She says to give you her best.”
He inspects the contents of the refrigerator. It’s famine time. There’s a half-can of tuna, a couple of odds and ends of this and that, but nothing to
“Be back soon,” he promises the cat, “but don’t wait up.”
There’s a Greek joint around the corner that’s usually open till nine o’clock. Cone calls it the Ptomaine Palace. “The food is poisonous,” he once told Samantha, “but the portions are big.”
He sits on a stool at the Formica counter and orders a bowl of lamb stew with rye bread and a bottle of Heineken. He finds a few shreds of lamb floating in the viscid gravy, but there are chunks of potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. He uses a lot of salt and pepper and fills up, which is all he asks of any meal.
He finishes by sopping puddles of gravy with pieces of bread. Before he leaves, he orders another lamb stew to go, figuring it’ll keep Cleo happy for at least a couple of days. It’s poured into a Styrofoam container and put into a brown paper bag.
Carrying that, he heads back for the loft. He’s on Broadway, close to home, when two short guys step out of a doorway and crowd him. They’re both wearing black trousers and gray alpaca jackets. He makes them as young Chinese.
“You are Mr. Timothy Cone?” one of them asks.
“Not me, friend,” Cone says. “I’m Simon Legree from Tennessee.”
There’s a rapid jabber of Chinese, then the other man stoops swiftly and runs his hands down Cone’s shins. He plucks the.357 magnum from the ankle holster and hands it to his partner.
“So you are Timothy Cone,” the speaker states. “Come this way, please.”
Since he’s now waving the S amp;W, Timothy goes along, still carrying the lamb stew. They lead him to an old, black, bulge-bodied Buick, a real doctor’s car. There’s a third Chinese sitting behind the wheel. They get Cone in the wide back seat, between the two men who took him.
“I must blindfold you now,” the leader says. “So sorry.”
The blindfold is white, padded, and is put on so slickly that Cone figures it’s got to be fastened with Velcro. The car starts up.
“Nice night for a drive,” he offers, but no one answers, and after that he doesn’t try any chitchat.
He lets his body go slack, feeling gravity and momentum, swaying slightly when the car takes a corner. He tries to imagine the route. A right-hand turn, a straightaway with the Buick accelerating, then slowing to make another right. Now we’re around the block and heading uptown, he guesses.
He can’t get a glimmer through that thick bandage over his eyes, but he can hear traffic noises change as they pass cross-streets. He counts the number of blocks, and when the Buick veers slightly to the left, he estimates they’re about at 14th Street. They pause awhile, probably for a traffic light, then make a left turn. Heavier traffic noise now, and Cone thinks it’s got to be a wide east-west street, either 14th or 23rd.
The car slows after traveling for about four minutes, and Cone sways as it turns to the right. They go down an incline, and the Buick’s engine takes on a reverberant sound, almost like an echo. An underground garage, Cone decides. The car comes to a stop, a back door is opened. He’s helped out, gently, no rough stuff, and still carrying his lamb stew, is led about twenty feet, hands gripping both his arms. He scuffs his work shoes on concrete and smells gas and oil fumes. Now he’s convinced it’s an underground parking garage.
The men holding him press closer, and the three of them slow, stop, wait a minute. Sound of elevator door opening. Forward, with a smoother floor under his feet: tile or linoleum. Metallic sound of elevator door closing. Then they go up, and Cone silently counts off seconds: A hundred and one, a hundred and two, a hundred and three … He’s figuring two seconds per floor; the elevator stops at 118. The doors swish open, he’s ushered out.
Now he’s walking on a rug, springy beneath his feet. A long walk and Cone, counting his paces, estimates forty feet at least. His captors are no longer pressing him, so it’s got to be a wide corridor. A hotel maybe? No, they wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into guests while hustling a blindfolded man.
They halt. Three sharp raps on wood. Small squeak of a door opening. Cone’s pulled forward, stumbling a bit on thicker pile carpeting, maybe a deep shag. Around a corner. He’s thrust forward, hands on his back. Stop. A fast spatter of Chinese. Then …
A precise voice: “Mr. Cone, what is that you are carrying?”
“Lamb stew,” he says. “You can have some if you like.”
There’s a snap of fingers. The brown paper bag is taken, and Cone hears the crinkle of paper, the pop of the lid coming off the Styrofoam container.
“You are right,” the voice says, “it is lamb stew. It looks and smells dreadful.”
“It’s not so bad,” Cone protests. “It’s filling.”
“Mr. Cone, I must apologize for this unconventional method of making your acquaintance. I trust you were not physically harmed.”
“Nah,” Cone says, “your guys did a nice job. Can you take the blindfold off now?”
“I fear that would be most unwise. And please do not try to remove it yourself. There are two very quick men standing behind you, both of them armed.”
“Okay,” Cone says, “I’ll be good.”
“Excellent. This will only take a few moments, and then you will be returned to your home. Mr. Cone, I understand you are investigating the increase in the price of White Lotus stock.”
“Where did you hear that?” Cone says. Then: “Listen, if we’re going to have a confab, could I sit down?”
“I prefer you remain standing,” the voice says sharply. “I am not going to ask you to terminate your investigation, Mr. Cone. I know you are an employee of Haldering and Company, and have been assigned to the case. All I am asking is that you delay your inquiries for perhaps another week. Two weeks at the most. Surely you could do that without insurmountable objections from your employer.”
“Maybe I could,” Cone says. “But why should I?”
“Because I request it,” the voice says with a silky undertone. “In return, naturally, you may expect to
